applesaucedream | This is My Island in the Sun [Open to All]

Current Music: Evening of September 6th/Morning of September 7th, 2013

This is My Island in the Sun [Open to All]

The Rift wouldn't say it's sorry for the fit it threw the other day, because the Rift never needs to apologize. It is (mostly) perfect, and all of its decisions are well reasoned and just. Obviously. But perhaps it has fallen into a bit of a post-tantrum sulk, because this dream is milder than one might expect. In fact, it's downright nice.

The dreamers will find themselves in an archipelago of small islands - most only a few acres in size - connected by narrow strips of sand or pebbles. The surrounding waters are calm. Little waves lap against the shorelines, and no rising tide will cut the islands off from one another. The islands themselves seem to have been lifted from every climate zone on Earth and several from beyond. Some are tropical, some colder and home to hardy conifers, some mossy and boulder-strewn, some covered in multicolored sand and odd, coral-like trees.

Most of the islands boast some kind of manmade or otherwise non-native structure, be it as small as a bench or as large as a pavilion, though there are no houses or shops to be seen. It's more like parkland, just civilized enough for a nice picnic. Some of the islands even have little grills, and a sufficiently motivated dreamer might be able to rustle up some hot dog or burger fixings if they poke around a bit.

And they'll have an extra pair of eyes to help with their searching, because their beloved dæmons have returned… again. Or perhaps they're being introduced for the first time. Regardless, it's the bi-annual dæmon dream party!

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The Doctor is taking to this dream surprisingly well, taking ungainly long steps through the sand and nattering at the stoic owl on his shoulder about carbon sand (and its requisite reversal, silicon based biology) and whatever else comes to mind. The owl isn't really the best audience, isn't impressed by the rattling off of molybdenum contents or fishpeople customs, but that's the nice thing about these dreams: you can usually corner someone somewhere, even on a cornerless beach. The sand is very red. Maybe if he talks loudly and animatedly enough, he can drown that out.

A tideline is as good as a corner, and there's someone conveniently right against it, drawing in the sand, an ominously robed someone. No, scratch that--a someone way too short to be ominous, with familiar green claws holding a bit of driftwood and a strangely, equally familiar snake just visible in the folds of the robe. "Callie!" he says, half greeting and half scold. "And...snake," he offers, at something of a loss. "Why are you dressed like that, this isn't the place for that get-up," he starts in. He's reasonably sure why she's hiding in a robe, but he has to at least try. Not that he doesn't understand the appeal in hooded clothing, especially if it's suitably aesthetically battered, but the ocean is no place to dress like a spectre, especially considering her relatively recent history as one.

Calliope is just about to watch the water take away another one of her aimless sketches when the Doctor's salutational chiding startles her and she turns around. She wasn't expecting any more company on this serene shore, and she wouldn't have minded enjoying the solitude for a little while longer, but he is hardly going to be a bother either. Even though he does manage to address the one unpleasant thing about this place right off the bat. She sighs and pushes her hood back a bit, in case he missed her woefully skeletal visage.

"I can't ever seem to change my appearance in any of the dream bubbles here," she laments, "just like in that dreadful forest where we first met." Knowing that he's rather likely to launch into more well-meaning scolding, she attempts to head him off by adding, "His name is Ophion, by the by," inclining her jaw towards the snake, who has raised his head to eye the new arrivals but remains silent for now. Oh well, just because he's choosing to be stand-offish doesn't mean she needs to be, so she offers the owl a small toothy smile. "He is pleased to meet you again, I'm sure."

Owls are in about the same league as snakes, when it comes to expressiveness of face, but the owl manages to look a little less severe in response to Callie's smile and introduction, blinking slowly. "As am I."

The Doctor in no way missed her cherub appearance or its significance. It had been an easy problem to avoid dealing with, in the waking world, where she manages to avoid her natural existence in all but the most direly exhausted situations. But it was bound to come up sooner or later, if she really can't change it at all in the dreaming. "You know, dressing like the grim reaper isn't likely to make a better first impression," he manages to scold only slightly. "Besides, beaches are for relaxing. Picnics. Sandcastles. Hunting seashells." Running from sea monsters. Saying teary goodbyes. Watching the moon turn out to have been an egg the whole time. "Not for fretting."

So much for deftly changing the topic. Her tentative smile fades from her face and she turns away ashamed, clinging to her robe more tightly despite the horrid association he's just brought to her attention. She's read about the grim reaper, has come across tellings of this frightful figure here and there during her extensive explorations of the TARDIS library. Sometimes she'd kept on reading, out of some morbid bloody curiosity and foolhardy comfort in the fact that she wasn't looking anything like that at the time. They were tales of fear and desperation, bargaining and loss. And now she does look like that, exactly like that, and she hadn't even realized what she'd done when she chose this garment for hiding.

"I did not mean to resemble the human personification of death," she says, half a whisper, catching on the last word. "But I rather fear I can't avoid it regardless of what I may be wearing..." Morosely, she pokes in the sand with her stick, unable to look at the Doctor. Ophion, on the other hand, winds around her shoulder to continue staring at him expectantly.

It had been just another of his many flippant comments, he hadn't meant it so harshly, but it's obviously hit her hard. He looks aghast at the unforeseen results of his words. This is worse than dealing with humans; he sighs. The owl looks as distressed as an owl can look, which is mostly angry, but mostly at her own lack of helpfulness. "Callie. It's just a little dark, is all." Which is mostly true; it would be a bit alarming on any figure encountered in a dream. "Points for mysteriousness, but that's not you. Something brighter, maybe. You could still wear a hat," he offers. The Doctor in all his incarnations has certainly ran a gamut of security items and affectations. "Nothing can be frightening in a hat." What does that snake want from him. "You're not frightening anyway. I wasn't afraid in the forest. Well, a little worried you might shoot me, but I've survived worse." It's a difficult line to tread, humans are jumpy and easily startled at the best of times, and even the best liar hesitates to sugarcoat their potential reactions, which he well knows are unpredictable and sometimes foul. And he's not the best judge of strange, he has too many centuries of experience seeking out and meddling with strange...he's a poor fit for this job no matter how you look at it, but she needs someone not to be.

He is trying to be kind, she can tell by his tone of voice, and because he always is. But he's doing so by addressing the matter of her unwisely chosen attire, rather than her monstrous appearance, as though that were the only thing making her scary and hideous right now. He's been showing her all sorts of wonderful sides to human society, how diverse and strange and imaginative they are, but she has yet to witness anything as beastly as her walking among all those beautiful humans.

"You are not afraid of anything," she counters softly, recalling that he hadn't left her even when she told him of her brother's pursuit. "And you are very kind. Alas, I find it hard to believe that others, as lovely as they may be, would be as brave and understanding in the face of... well, my face." Her grim prodding gradually turns into one messy spiral, groove deepening with each comforting repeat.

That's very generous of her, but it simply isn't true, the Doctor is afraid of very many things, including sincerity. "Well, you can't know if you don't give anyone a chance. Iman did alright, didn't she? And starting here would be a way of starting small. But it's your call," he says. Personally he thinks, even with all their varied and sundry shortcomings, humans are more flexible than she gives them credit for, but she hasn't lived with them for all the hundreds of years he has. Hasn't lived with anyone that long. It's understandable that that would be hard to believe, however she managed to come by these hangups so strongly.

The owl looks a little sleepy in the sunlight. Can an external manifestation of one's spirit, acquired in a dream, go to sleep in that dream? It is a mystery. "Wanna help me build a sandcastle?"

Of course she hasn't forgotten Iman's extraordinary benevolence even once she'd accidentally revealed her true appearance for a moment. But it seems awfully daunting to hope that she would not be a happy fluke, an exception, that others would react with such compassion and tolerance as well. Perhaps if the Doctor was with her, or if she had a secure way of hiding if something went wrong; he does seem to think it may be worth a try... But she can't follow that thought for very long before being cowed by anxiety and shame.

The Doctor's distracting question, then, is very welcome, and she hesitantly peeks up at him with curiosity just as shy. "How does one go about building an entire castle?" The snake once again does quite the opposite, resting his head back on her chest, though whether satisfied or disappointed, who can say.

"It's done in miniature, not to scale. There's no practical purpose to it. Humans just like building too much to let the opportunity to practice go." The Doctor takes off his coat, the owl scooting on his shoulder fussily to let him, and sets it on the sand. He grabs a bit of driftwood--had it always been there?-- and props the coat up into a little shaded tent, hands the owl carefully into the shade, where she blinks gratefully. Is it still thoughtful if one is doing it for oneself? Essentially? He rolls up his sleeves, surveying the damp sand appraisingly. Better than carbon sand. Definitely.

Well that makes sense, building is an essential skill for reaching the various gates and progressing through the game. She'd always thought troll society seemed especially geared towards it, requiring even their young to learn to be adept architects, so it's rather validating to hear humans are much the same. There's a lecture in here somewhere, but the Doctor is so busy setting up a wee tent for his owl that she can't help but smile at the care he takes with her.

"You should start with a sturdy, broad foundation if you wish to build high," she offers when he looks a bit lost in thought at the sand.

The Doctor looks a bit surprised at her knowledgeable advising, but she's definitely got a point. He sits down crosslegged, and starts to scoop sand into a big pile, using only his hands despite the ready availability of shovels in a dream. Buckets have a place, but finer tools are only for detailing, in his opinion. "Hm, yes. Very practical." He'd rather always thought the moat was the most important part. Time tots are not especially invested in sand building, but why would they be? It's a valuable lesson in transience and impermanence, which they probably didn't especially need or wouldn't be able to properly appreciate. Maybe if Rassilon had built more sandcastles, though. Just a few. "Earth sand isn't usually this colour; white or yellow is more usual. On the right Earth beach, you could build a castle more like your dream city place." Not at all a perfect match, it would never be so horrifyingly, aggressively yellow as her room's colour scheme, but closer than this.

Now that he's got going, Calliope feels more drawn to this project as well and sinks to her knees beside him. Placing her stick out of the way, she begins to scoop up sand into her own little hill, carefully clumping it together for stability. As they work in pensive silence for a bit, Ophion leisurely slithers down her arm and into the cool sand, busying himself with tracing one of the spirals she drew close by.

She always appreciates the Doctor sharing his vast knowledge of humans and Earth with her, but this tidbit now makes her frown down at her work, emerald claws covered in dark red sand the color of her brother's blood. This is Earth sand, though not an Earth he's been to. How different her story would have turned out if he had been there. Or if anyone had, for that matter.

"Prospit," she supplies absent-mindedly, her thoughts for once very far away from that splendid place. "This is what Earth looked like when I lived there. Without the water, anyhow. The sand would go on till the horizon. And it was covered in strange architecture of rather questionable taste." She doesn't lift her eyes from her work, still forming sand with measured motions, to add quietly, "The sky was a different colour, though."

The Doctor watches the snake's antics in amusement. What an odd, determined little creature. He always forgets that she has lived on an Earth, albeit a strange one by everything she says. "My planet had red sand too, more orange than this though. The sky was red and the suns were older. Even the grass was red," he says, just as softly. Callie's imprisonment would have been very different from his experience, his flight, but he can't refute some similarities. Is it as bittersweet to her to have left her version of Earth behind, or is she only glad of her freedom? The people one leaves behind probably make a lot of difference. "The architecture was very impressive, of course. Time Lords go in for that, bit much in my opinion," he says candidly, warming to his subject, hoping to draw her out. "But the trees were something to see," more wistfully. The foundation for his castle is good enough, he decides, and starts to work on the center, building up.

Edited 2015-06-13 19:54 (UTC)

Hearing about his planet is an unexpected comfort, and she's surprised by how similar it sounds to her old home. All those myriad and marvelous ways a world can look like, and they both lived on a red planet under a red sky. She glances at him from beneath her hood while he speaks, wondering why he seems to reflect even her odd homesickness. Is it because he currently can't flit about the universe in his ship like he does in all the tales of his magnificent adventures? Or because of his troublesome relationship with his own species? Either way, she isn't sure if it's something she ought to ask about.

"I would have liked to have plants, I think," she says instead, pensively, thoughts on her own past once again. "The view grew a smidgen monotonous, at times. But I never tired of looking at the sky. The sun was so wild and beautiful, as though the entire firmament belonged to it." Sometimes she'd sit on the roof for hours, in the heat and the bright limitless space, drawing or writing until the sunlight made the paper brittle. A small sigh escapes her fangs. "It was lonely, but also peaceful."

Her foundation has taken on a round shape, and she gingerly smooths down the sides by running a claw around its circumference. Solemnly, she asks, "Do you visit sometimes?" She isn't sure if she would, if she ever had the opportunity, so perhaps his answer could serve as a guide for her.

Edited 2015-06-13 21:33 (UTC)

He supposes he should have expected a question like that. He hadn't opted to go into it really, one nice thing about being trapped in Manhattan, other concerns become more distant in the shadow of a more pressing concern. Story of his life really. Her wonder at the sky is admirable, she would have enjoyed traveling so much, it's such a shame they're landbound now, he thinks for the millionth time. So much of her strange isolated upbringing remains a mystery, but everything he knows of it sounds regrettable. "Not in a very long time. There was...a war. My home was destroyed, and that was the end of it, I thought. It was just me and the TARDIS and the universe." He carefully navigates his part in any of that by avoiding it entirely. "But eventuality is negotiable, for Time Lords. Some of my species could be very resourceful," perhaps to a fault. "There was a possibility of going back, before the rift." Not that eventuality could be entirely negated, but the possibility, the search, had been bewilderingly real, ripping open everything. "I kept my visits to a minimum before that," he says dryly, to cover up something like the precursor to regret. Mostly that is the truth. He carries on making divots in the roof of a central edifice like nothing he'd said is of any importance. Perhaps the knowledge will help her adjust in some way. He can't imagine how, perhaps their shared outsider status will do the heavy lifting, there.

What a sad and sorrowful tale he is telling her in response to her question, though she doesn't quite regret asking, rather feeling grateful that he would share it with her. She recognizes the loneliness in his fate without words, has a sense for it like nothing else; such an unlikely thing to unite them. And there seems to be a smidgen of hope at the end, a possible way home, if he chooses to follow it. That must be a comfort. Yet very far away, it seems.

"I'm sorry, love," she says softly, wishing there was more to say. She'd love to hear what his visits were like, would be more than glad to listen to happier tales of his home, but she'd hate to push him. So instead she offers, "I fancy my planet must have been destroyed by now, either by my brother or by our sun. But... I suppose that is all right, so long as one has the nigh infinity of a universe to keep one company." She, too, keeps on building, adding another cylinder to the larger base, smoothing it down, pressing a small hole into the center. The snake seems to have tired of reenacting spirals and winds over to the shade, raising his head to regard the owl inquisitively.

Far away, and only present in the back of his mind, with all his current concerns to take center stage. But still there, nonetheless, nagging at him distractingly. "Yeah, it's all right," he says, encouragingly bordering on flippantly, like he can make it true for either of them. "The universe, and all the people in it, still there. Good to have someone to knock about the stars with, so I usually did. There's so much to see, when you can go anywhere, any time," he says, with evident fondness, giving the central construction of his castle a satisfied once-over. Not any consolation to either of them, but all of time and space abides, that's the beauty of it. He sets to piling up a corner tower, very traditional, an old classic. "I'll get the rift sorted one of these days. Then the sky's the limit. Any of them." Manhattan is barely even training wheels, to that.

The owl graciously makes room in her little hut, letting the snake get out of the sun if he likes. Awkwardly but determinedly, she grooms at nothing on the snake's smooth scales. What strange, perhaps offputting little spirit creatures. No fur, no paws, not well suited to anything, but here nonetheless.

Oh how marvelous it sounds, travelling the stars, seeing innumerable sights and civilizations, sharing adventures with someone. She could listen to him talk about his travels for an eternity, he is such a splendid storyteller when he gets going, passionate and engaging. And, perhaps, a welcome distraction for both of them. She starts to pile up a little wall as she listens, or a bridge, gently sloping from the base of her structure over to a corner of his, delicately carving out tiny spires along the top. Her hood keeps obscuring her vision during this tricky bit of work, so she ends up brushing it back over her skull.

Then he mentions escaping his current fetters, and her claws still in the sand. For one reason or another, she'd never quite stopped to think about a future beyond their present arrangements, except perhaps in the brief lonely moments before sleep overtakes her. She has never even once considered this to be a kind of imprisonment, their life in the boundless dimensions of the TARDIS within the brilliant, loud, astonishing human city; there's been far too much to see and to do. But perhaps it would be to him, who by all his stories is accustomed to truly unrestrained wandering. Yet the thought of all that they have here ending squeezes her insides as though a relentless serpent had taken hold of her. "You must be looking forward to returning to your universe quite terribly," she manages at length, voice wavering.

Ophion is tolerating the grooming patiently, lying still and loose in the sand, occasionally twitching a coil to the side when it tickles. As Calliope's mood shifts he half turns to gaze up at her, then hurries into the shelter. Curling up close to the owl's feathered claws, his only way of showing affection is to seek out her company.

He really is the worst at this. She sounds distressed, though of course she's putting a brave face on it, as is her wont. He, too, stops construction for a moment, to look at her seriously, and conveniently ignore responding to her statement directly. The snake is a spooked heap in the little coat-hut, Sraif peering down at him with exaggerated avian head movements, normally hilarious, now concerned. What is even the cause for her upset? Does she assume she wouldn't be able to go back to her own universe? A potentially reasonable assumption; she was dead, and also her universe sounds rather inhospitable. But it also sounds like it might be important for her to go back for other reasons. Who hasn't been there? Things you'd rather do, but the universe needs you in place with all the other cogs and gears, what a hassle. But it's a little easier to negotiate with the cosmos, when you have a time machine. And she'd need a fighting chance of some kind. "Callie. Do you not want to go back to your own universe some day? It wouldn't have to be immediate." Though it might have to be permanent. Universal boundaries can be quite the sticking point. But she seems pretty at ease with time shenanigans. It was apparently a Thing. Lots of things sounded like they were Things. Pretty confusing, even for him. "Wouldn't matter when. Time machine, and all." Because that strategy always never fails. At least on paper. "I know you want to help your friends."

The question of wanting to return to her proper place in paradox space, perhaps to the Furthest Ring and being dead, is a complicated one she has been somewhat guiltily avoiding. There just hasn't been much time for considering it, between having her nose in all those books and illustration projects and exploring inside and outside the TARDIS. And even now, it is momentarily swept aside by the astonishing implication that he would - could she be so fortunate? - take her with him.

Her eyes go wide and wondering as she looks up at him. "Do you mean to say I could come along? To your universe?" To that place of all his stories, so full of marvelous planets to see and strange splendid people to meet? And to not be alone again, even just for a little while after he heals the breach in the fabric of this universe.

He doesn't need any kind of TARDIS bells and whistles to detect rising sincerity levels, and he responds with the usual dismissive blustery huff. What did she think? That he'd fix the rift and then just show her the door without so much as a by your leave? When he has so much to make up for? The owl isn't making eye-contact with anything, trampling in the sand like a cat trying to get comfortable. "Of course you could! You've lived in the TARDIS ages and not even been to so much as the moon. Now that would be, that would be a disgrace." She's been bounced from one form of confinement to another all her life. The cage gets a little bigger, maybe big enough she doesn't even see the walls anymore, but she's still in it. What a perfect target for showing the sights. See the universe through new eyes? Well, these eyes are about as new as they get. How could he pass that up? It just wouldn't be fair, and he's been on a fairness roll, for once. The universe has been almost unnaturally just, in some regards. Would be a shame to spoil that streak. "Wouldn't you want to put off going back, for a bit?"

And just like that, a whole bright splendid future unfolds before her mind's eye, full of thrilling adventures and fascinating encounters on unknown planets by her friend's side. Even her lively imagination isn't enough to conceive of all that they might see and get up to. It's quite overwhelming, yet in some ways so similar to the hopes she's had for her future all her life.

Though those flights of fancy had included her human friends, and opportunities to discover her potential as a Muse of Space and what her place might be in the grand story of Paradox Space. She'd be putting that off, too, or may never get a chance for it at all. As the thoughts of her friends and her ghostly past return, she crumbles a bit and glances back down at her sandy claws. "It is so very tempting...," she assures him, trying to sort through the warring desires and anxieties swirling round in her head. "I do worry about my friends, though. They were all in grave danger the last time I heard from them, and they are facing such a formidable enemy... What if there is something I could be doing for them, or should be doing?" And what if that's an awfully presumptuous concern, still clinging to the fanciful idea that she had been destined for a significant role. Ophion's coils tighten nervously at the owl's agitated trampling next to him, watching her with respect or uncertainty or longing.

Meanwhile Calliope worries at the sleeve of her robe with her sharp claws and adds gloomily, "I suppose I was not proving terribly useful hiding away in the Void, anyhoo. Perhaps they could do just fine without me... And to tell you the unglamorous truth, I'm... I'm quite frightened of going back." She says the last very quietly; the Doctor has never made her feel like he thought badly of her, but she can't help worrying that someone so worldly and bold would look unfavorably on her cowardice.

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This is My Island in the Sun [Open to All]

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